Videat Malum
by agent iz hyper
Summary: Hogwarts AU. / John knows about Holmes. He's an enigma shrouded in a heavy black coat, with eyes that pierce into you and uncover your life and secrets (and regardless of the rumours, John is pretty certain he is not a Seer). And, against his better judgement, John is intrigued. Something about the mystery and danger surrounding Holmes reels him in and he can't quite regret it.
1. Chapter 1

If asked, John Watson would say that he was quite an average fourteen-year-old wizard. He attended Hogwarts like any other, he'd shrug, and while living at a magical school surrounded by other magical teenagers was exciting he wouldn't say his life was particularly _extraordinary_.

That is, of course, until he had the (in some ways, very fortunate) misfortune of running into one Sherlock Holmes.

(Although, of course, Sherlock would always insist on the point that it had been the other way around. _Semantics_, it seemed, were essential.)

* * *

John knows about Holmes. Everyone does – older, younger, different Houses, even the First Years are wary of the snippy pale Slytherin.

John isn't.

Well, to be honest, he's never actually spoken to the boy before. Which might seem odd, considering he's halfway through his fourth year at Hogwarts, but it isn't like the Slytherins are a sociable bunch anyway. And despite the friendly nature of Hufflepuffs, John never saw the point.

The way he sees it, people either fear Holmes or revere him – and only from a distance. He's an enigma shrouded in a heavy black coat and rumours never cease around him. Of course, John knows what he can do, has heard the recounts – whether angry or terrified – of the way he can pick apart a person with the barest of glances. And then there are the more outlandish ones; claims that Holmes is secretly a Seer, that he's mastered Legilimency, even that he's half-human and half something else (something psychic, likely), because surely nobody can pick out such fine details without something there?

But John is, if nothing, pragmatic at best and he reserves his own judgement on the odd boy. It isn't for a lack of interest; more a reluctance to get caught up in the (admittedly, sometimes rather terrifying) rumour mill of the student body. He can admit to himself that some of the alleged reports seem to hold more fiction than fact – he doesn't care how intelligent Holmes is, he cannot possibly have mastered the skills of a Legilimens by the age of fourteen. (And he isn't even going to _touch_ on the ones about his apparent half-breed status.)

John himself has never been subject to much more than a passing glance from the peculiar boy in a shared class. He's certainly never had those pale eyes (and he hasn't ever been close enough to notice the colour – nor does he think he wants to be) pierce through him and lay out his whole life and secrets, as he's heard is his – what, hobby? Specialty? _Gift_? He isn't sure, but whatever it is, it's most definitely unique.

It isn't that John goes out of his way to avoid him – their paths never seem to cross. John doesn't even recall seeing the boy much out of classes. So it's with a shock that, as John exits the owlery after sending a reply to his sister's letter and rounds the corner, he walks straight into none other but the Slytherin in question.

Or maybe _gets barged into _is more specific – Holmes seems to be in a hurry and the collision as his long legs and taller self hit John makes him stumble back, trip, and they fall in a tangle of limbs, robes and that long coat of his.

"Oh, God, sorry," John groans, pushing away and getting to his feet. "Didn't see you coming- sorry." His proffered helping hand is ignored as Holmes gathers himself up nimbly and looks him over – no more than a glance – as he straightens up his coat.

John doesn't know why but the intense light-coloured eyes (they look almost grey in the bright torchlight, but a little bit blue too; interesting) make him want to stand up straighter to his full not-so-very-impressive height, which is stupid so he just meets the stare head-on instead. This makes Holmes lift an eyebrow infinitesimally. John offers a cautious smile. "Erm, I'm John Watson."

The eyebrow falls and the pale boy rolls his eyes, sliding his hands into his pockets and saying scornfully, "I know who you are." His stare stays fixed though, and John shifts, puzzled and a little bit awkward.

"Um. Right. Then." He opens his mouth to say something, though not entirely sure what, but in a beat Holmes is already on the move again. John blinks after him, feeling the loss of the intensity of Holmes' scrutiny as he disappears around the corner in the same rush he'd been in before, leaving John standing there and wondering if he'd somehow imagined the brief – though intriguing – incident.

In any case, he sets to putting it out of his mind and continues on down to dinner, his thoughts already moving on to his Transfiguration essay and Quidditch practice.

And yet, John finds himself surveying the Slytherin table in between chatting with his mates and heaping his plate full of chicken. Two sweeps of his eyes up and down the green-decked students reveals no tall imposing fourth-year and he wonders vaguely why Holmes had been in such a rush.

As soon as he catches himself, John mentally shakes his head to clear it.

"All right, John?"

He looks up at his best mate, Mike Stamford, who's glancing behind him to see what John had been staring at. John brings his focus back to the drumstick in his hand (when had he picked that up?) and smiles, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, sorry, just thinking."

Next to him, Sarah looks at him curiously. "You're looking a little off. Did something happen? Is Harry okay?"

Embarrassed doesn't seem to cover it now. John feels his ears heat up and tries to find something to say that doesn't make it sound like his thoughts have been preoccupied by the strangest boy in their year (maybe the whole school) who – as far as they know – he hasn't ever spoken to before.

John has to take another moment to remind himself that, really, he _hasn't_. That interlude in the hallway had been nothing.

…Except perhaps a little bit unsettling. Or intriguing. Possibly both.

"It's nothing," he says out loud, hoping his smile is reassuring. "Harry's fine – well, y'know, as fine as Harry ever is." His mind latches onto the first thing he can think of, so he adds, "Just thinking about the homework we got for Transfiguration. I've got Quidditch practice later tonight – should probably head back to the Common Room and finish it off before that." He puts the chicken down, untouched.

It _is_ true. It's just not _the_ truth. John feels quite guilty – he's not used to hiding things from his friends. Still, he can't really imagine what he can say if he was to tell them the real reason behind his preoccupation – "_Sorry, guys, it's just that I bumped into Sherlock Holmes, or rather he ran into me and then proceeded to stare into my soul for the next five seconds while I tried to form a coherent sentence. It was strange and now I'm alarmingly intrigued. Call for help._"

…Yeah, okay, maybe not.

Mike nods. "Good idea. You're always like the walking dead after practice. Almost expect you to start moaning for brains half the time." He grins as Sarah looks mildly confused at the reference to zombies – though for a pure-blood, she has become rather adapted to Muggle-related things thanks to them.

John rolls his eyes good-naturedly as he stands. "I blame Lestrade. Not sure what the bloke thinks he'll achieve by running us into the ground every couple of nights, honestly."

"Just a thought, but I'd guess that would be the Quidditch Cup," Sarah says mildly.

He laughs at that. "Now why didn't I think of that?" John quirks a grin at the both of them before stepping over the bench to head back to the Common Room. "Right, I'm off. See you in a bit."

They wave him off and John strides out of the Great Hall purposefully, the chatter of hundreds of students fading as he wanders away from them. A frown has replaced the earlier smile, and he can't help but fixate on the thought – he hadn't seen Holmes enter the Hall at all.

Again, he wonders what the boy had been in a rush for. An important letter is likely, but what exactly?

And _again_, he reminds himself (very forcefully this time) that it is most certainly none of his business what the Slytherin gets up to, and also that this curiosity ignited by their encounter cannot lead to anything good.

John huffs out a deep breath, looks up from his musings and his steps stutter. Case in point: he is not, in fact, heading towards the Hufflepuff Common Room as he was fully intending to do. Instead, he recognises the route as the one to the owlery.

Irritated, yet curious against his will (and better judgement), John stares ahead and ponders peering into the owlery to see if Holmes is still there. (Now that he's here, it only makes sense. Maybe he'll get an answer or two. Or Holmes will catch him and he'll seem like a stalker. He could make up an excuse – emergency letter home, maybe? – but no doubt the Slytherin will see right through it.)

As it turns out, his self-debate is quite pointless. After another silent moment, John gives in to his curious nature and quietly treads up the steps to the owlery. When he finds it empty of another student, he doesn't know whether the feeling that rushes through him is relief or disappointment.

He decides, very firmly, that it doesn't matter either way. Just because Holmes seems to have a certain (interest-peaking more than daunting) aura about him, and John's inquisitive nature demands satisfaction – well, those two points alone are enough to convince him that this line of thought is best left alone.

The walk back to his Common Room (this time, he does end up there) is heavy with thought and swirling questions in his head. (Holmes had looked right at him – _stared_, really – and claimed to have known who he is, yet he hadn't said anything; where was the rattle of declarations on every aspect of John's life? The piercing gaze that caught every detail for him to lay bare to the world? John would be a liar if he claims not to have been anticipating it the moment he'd realised who exactly it was who had knocked him over. But then – Holmes had been in a rush, so maybe that was it.)

As soon as John is in the familiar comfort of his dorm room, empty besides him as the other boys are still enjoying dinner, he falls into his bed and digs out his half-complete Transfiguration essay and a quill. It takes a while to get his thoughts to focus (turning inanimate objects to less-inanimate objects is something he can't quite get the hang of) but eventually, he is immersed in his homework. The door opens just as he is finishing off (not his best essay ever, but acceptable enough) and Mike enters.

"Hey," John says distractedly.

"Lestrade's headed out to the pitch already," he says in way of greeting.

John looks up, notices the light dimming from outside, and curses. He hadn't meant to lose track of time. He slips the essay back into his bag and dons his Quidditch gear in a minute, snatching his broom from its post by his bed and shoving his shoes on quickly – where most of the team had sneakers from wizard stores, specially made for Quidditch and the sporadic weather they play in, John simply wears his favourite Muggle sneakers that he plays football in during the summer back at home. A few well-practiced charms make them durable enough to last and also repel rainwater and mud from ruining them. It's a practical solution to the financial problems of his family.

He dashes out of the Common Room, dodging students along the way before bursting out the wide front doors of the school. Not paying attention to where he's going and caught up in the momentum, John only has time to see the tall back of a black-covered figure walking ahead of him before he runs into him, sending them both sprawling to the ground in a tumble of limbs and twin gasps of sudden pain from the impact.

John curses and tries to untangle himself from the figure beneath him, a feat not helped any by the other boy's wriggling as he grunts and tried to roll onto his back so his face isn't shoved into the ground.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry," John mutters awkwardly. He finally manages to extract himself from the mess and falls back heavily to his haunches, catching his breath before he looks up – a useless effort as it just disappears all over again.

For of course he ran into none other than Holmes himself. Again.

"Are you following me?" he demands immediately, the words slipping out before he can even think them over (and, _really_? He's accusing Holmes of being some sort of _stalker_, now?). John feels the heat rush up to his face, knows his ears are lit up pink, but refuses to back away from the now wide-eyed stare that holds him in place.

"_Following you_? Are you that dull?" Holmes shoots back with a scoff. He gets to his feet as swiftly as he'd done in the hallway before (John tries not to feel like a wrecked mess in his grass-stained Quidditch gear when he hurries to get his own feet under him – the height difference is bad enough without the added gap) and calmly brushes dirt off his coat.

John frowns and crosses his arms. Empty, he realises at the same moment – his broom is lying on the ground a few feet away where it flew out of his hand from the collision. "Well- this is the second time I've run into you today," he amends somewhat defensively.

Holmes' inscrutable look is starting to make him uncomfortable. He doesn't tear his gaze away like he wants to, though, because some part of his mind is shouting that losing eye contact will show weakness and any weakness in front of a guy like Sherlock Holmes is bound to be pounced on and used against him. (But then, that voice sounds suspiciously like his sister when she's being a paranoid drunk so he's not sure how much stock he should put in it).

"The first time," Holmes says.

John blinks, his stiff posture relaxing a bit from surprise. "What?"

"I do believe _I_ ran into _you_ earlier," he points out.

Huh. So he does remember that. John hadn't been sure; Holmes had looked very preoccupied and he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd forgotten the incident entirely. John presses his lips together in consideration, shifts a little on the spot. "Right. Well." He peers curiously at the Slytherin, who looks relaxed and indifferent in comparison to him. "I see you're not going to apologise for that." It's a statement, an acknowledgement that he doesn't expect Holmes to. Holmes, on the other hand, seems to have anticipated a different response because John's almost sure he sees a flash of surprise in his eyes (now pale blue, almost reflecting the lightest part of the sky as the sun sets behind him).

John shrugs and drops his arms. "And I didn't see where I was going just now anyway, so. Sorry about that." He crosses the few steps to his broom and picks it up, glancing ahead at the Quidditch pitch just visible from their position. He looks back at Holmes who watches him silently, almost considering. John waves a hand in the direction of the pitch. "I gotta... go," he finishes a little lamely, mounting his broom.

Holmes nods almost imperceptibly and shoves his hands into his coat pockets.

John inclines his head in a sort of farewell before kicking off and, resisting the urge to glance back once more at the (now more than ever) intriguing Slytherin, flies off to join his teammates.

Lestrade has a lecture about punctuality he starts to give a distracted John but, as always, he runs out of steam halfway through and just sighs tiredly with a wave of the hand that John has learnt to mean "_Go on then_". He grins apologetically but flies up to join the others.

As he swings his Beater's bat with accustomed force at the Bludgers, John spares a quick glance back to the patch of field in front of the school.

It's empty.

Before he has time to even ponder over Holmes' whereabouts, a solid _thud_ sounds and a scream pierces his thoughts. He turns in midair, automatically raising his bat in some form of defence – a defence which comes in handy as a Bludger hurtles towards him with terrifying force and he hits it away just in time to see where it had come from.

Their Keeper, a speedy second-year called Carl Powers, is hurtling towards the ground, his broom – now shattered – gripped uselessly in his hands.

* * *

**A/N:** *bounds in* Hello! I hope that interested you at least a little. Been wanting to do a Sherlock-at-Hogwarts fic for a while so I figured – meh, why not? And, yeah, I started the story with a bang because I suck at building up to things considering all the tangents I go off on which means I never end up getting to whatever it was I was aiming for. xP

Hopefully all questions will be cleared up in due course, and also I apologise for any... discrepancies with Sherlock's character right now. I'm still getting a feel of him at the moment so hopefully with a bit more writing and including him in on some more action than being knocked to the ground multiple times (uh, I promise you that second time was not completely random and he does actually have a reason for being there other than for John to barge into him again...) I'll be able to write him better. And then I'll come back and fix up his parts here.

Also, I should say this from now – I'm not a regular updater. I don't work well with schedules and my updates are sporadic at best. Sometimes I'll post up a couple of chapters in a week, at other times I'll go a month without writing. So, sorry in advance. Feel free to urge me to write with compliments, threats of bodily harm, threats of finding-me-and-making-me-write, pleading, and/or bribery (psst. I love Nutella. *innocent*).

Lol, nah but, in all seriousness. I do have plans for this story, so suffice to say that even if I don't update in a while, it doesn't mean I've given up on it. I do have a couple of awesome friends who I'm sure wouldn't let me do that, anyway. :P *pokes you all* you know who you are. ;)

Would love to know what you think so far. Please drop me a comment; it would seriously make my day. :)

Cheers,  
izzy. ^.^


	2. Chapter 2

A solid _thud_ sounds and a scream pierces his thoughts. He turns in mid-air, automatically raising his bat in some form of defence – a defence which comes in handy as a Bludger hurtles towards him with terrifying force and he hits it away just in time to see where it had come from.

Their Keeper, a speedy second-year called Carl Powers, is hurtling towards the ground, his broom – now shattered – gripped uselessly in his hands.

John lets out a wordless shout, urges his broom down fast even as he realises numbly that he won't be able to reach Carl in time, sees Lestrade flying towards him from the far side of the pitch, and (knows, just _knows_) they won't make it neither of them are close enough-

But Carl never hits the ground.

John jerks away automatically at the flash of light blue that shoots past him and hits Carl, mere inches from the grass, and immobilises him in the air. Behind him, Lestrade yells "_Merlin's goddamn beard!_" and flies down to grab Carl, lowering him to the ground carefully as the spell quickly wears off.

He doesn't realise that his hands are gripping his broom so tightly the skin around his knuckles goes white, until each of his teammates is down comforting a shocked Carl and John snaps back to himself, grimly loosening his grip and letting out the breath he'd unconsciously held. Instead of joining the others, he raises his eyes to the stands and the field surrounding the pitch, swivels in his search until-

_There_.

Even with the distance, intelligent pale eyes stand out starkly on the dark-clad Slytherin, standing tall and still next to the stands. John's own eyes narrow as Holmes slowly turns his gaze from the group on the ground to him, holding his stare for a few moments, before walking away.

Confusion fills John and he hesitates, half of him urging him to follow Holmes and find out _what the bloody hell that was_ but his concern for Carl ultimately wins and he faces his broom downwards to join his team.

(But even as he comforts a shaken Carl and pats his back solidly, the niggling at the back of his mind persists – what was Holmes doing here? How did he know to stop the fall - Did he know what was going to happen? But, no, c'mon, the bloke _is not_ a bloody Seer, and John is practical enough not to entertain the notion any longer than it takes to dismiss it.)

He can't help but be apprehensive, though. Something had gone wrong today, he just doesn't know_ what_.

* * *

The week passes without noteworthy incident (although Mike does somehow manage to Charm his eyebrows invisible for a whole day, which their Gryffindor mate Billy found especially hilarious) until he has Herbology with the Slytherins last thing on Friday.

John has something of a green thumb – he used to help his mum with her plants back home when he was younger, both Muggle and magical plants (both his parents were Muggleborns, meaning he and Harry grew up in a mixed home, happily combining both wizarding world and Muggle world... until their mother passed away during John's second-year from a magic-induced illness that wasn't treated in time, and their dad took to the comfort of the whiskey bottle).

Sarah enjoys Herbology too, out of interest more than skill. Mike, on the other hand, would have given it up as a lost cause if he could, but Professor Sprout keeps urging him that he'll get it before long. John helps where he can, but Mike has always been better at theorised work than the more hands-on classes.

He glances around as everyone else files into the greenhouse – three more boys and two girls from his House, and from the Slytherin's Fourth Years there are three boys and four girls. Holmes strides in silently as always, right behind a large intimidating boy called Sebastian Moran, and a pair of scathing twin sisters who are constantly muttering cruel remarks to each other about anyone who passes by. John's learned to ignore them over the years, for the most part.

Beside him, Mike makes a disgusted face as a bubotuber plant squirms in front of him, like a giant black slug sticking out of the pots. "I don't want to touch these things again."

"You're wearing gloves, Mike," Sarah says in the exasperated tone she gets when one of the boys is acting like a child. "It's not as if you're actually _touching_ it."

"Yeah, well. Still."

John shakes his head with a laugh. "I don't know what you're gunna do about the OWLs next year, mate."

Mike mutters something under his breath just as Professor Sprout enters and hands out their instructions. Before they can split off with their friends and start collecting the bubotuber pus, however, she adds sternly, "Considering the circumstances of last week's _disaster_, I have taken the liberty of dividing you myself to avoid such happenings from recurring."

One of the Slytherin girls, a blond Russian called Ludmila Dyachenko, scoffs. "We're not _kids_."

Professor Sprout fixes her with a strict look. "And yet, I still find myself having to break up scuffles like I'm dealing with First Years again."

John winced at the memory – in their last class, the twin girls had deliberately squirted some of the bubotuber pus onto a Hufflepuff girl, getting it right on her face, and in her panic she had spilled her own collection of the pus which only narrowly (sadly) missed hitting them. Professor Sprout had ushered them all out of the greenhouse before escorting the poor girl to see Madam Pomfrey.

"If she puts me in with Moran, I'm out of here," Mike mumbles next to him. John hums agreeably, then perks up when he hears his name.

"John Watson, Mike Stamford, and Sherlock Holmes."

_Oh_. Wasn't expecting that.

John looks up apprehensively at Holmes, who hasn't moved an inch and is instead leaning back against the greenhouse wall and staring up with an expression of pure boredom.

"I guess we should..." Mike waves a hand uncertainly, "go?" He looks a bit relieved, though. While not exactly _friendly_, Mike knows Holmes to an extent – his pureblood father went to school with Mr. Holmes' brother, so they used to see each other sometimes at gatherings at the Holmes estate. Not recently, though, and the two don't talk at school (not that John's ever really seen Holmes _converse_ with people) but it's better than being strangers.

"What? Oh, yeah. Right." John grabs his protective gear and glances back at Sarah, who shrugs.

"I got one of the twins in my group."

John grimaces in sympathy. "Don't let her hit you with the stuff, yeah?"

She grins at him. "No chance. Doubt those two know how to do anything individually, anyway. I bet that's why Professor Sprout split them up." She nods behind him. "You should go on, Holmes doesn't look like he'll be helping and God knows Mike won't be touching these plants any time soon."

He chuckles but agrees, turning back to join his friend and the Slytherin. Mike stands awkwardly to the side, obviously having given up on striking conversation with his peer, and is eyeing the bubotuber in distaste.

"Okay, so," John says as he reaches them, "shall we start?"

"Er, yeah, go ahead." Mike gestures at it and John shoots him a look that is part amused, but shakes his head and pulls on his gloves. He looks up at Holmes to see him watching almost disinterestedly.

"Aren't you going to help?" he asks before he can think it through. (Not his fault – that stare is unnervingly piercing and he feels like he might as well say what's on his mind because Holmes can probably read it on his face anyway.)

Holmes rolls his eyes, only just. "Redundant," he drawls, not moving an inch. (John tries not to call him a lazy git because he's not sure how that would be received and better safe than sorry.) "I have already perfected the technique of retrieving bubotuber pus. I see no point in performing the activity again."

John blinks, then shrugs. "Fair enough." He turns to the black plant wriggling in front of him, completely missing the look of surprise that flashes across Holmes' face before it smooths back to his cool expression. (He's more than aware of being watched closely, though, and thinks it's likely because Holmes expects him to stuff up.)

When John was ten, his mum had shown him a way to get the pus that guaranteed minimal spilling and was easy even with the bubotuber squirming about everywhere. He remembers it clearly (remembers everything she taught him, all the hours spent in her garden tending to plants and learning which ones to avoid and which to approach cautiously and breaking into fits of giggles when she tricked him into getting near the big purple fluffy one that tickled him as soon as he was within reach) and uses it now, pleased with himself when it works quickly and much more efficiently than the method that Professor Sprout showed them. He makes sure he's gathered all the pus he can and that none has spilled (it hasn't), before grinning up at Mike and joking as he waves a now glove-free hand, "See, didn't even touch me."

Mike smiles sheepishly, but before he can reply Holmes speaks up, eyes (pale green, like the shrubs around them when the sun hits them) alight with curiosity.

"Where did you learn that method?"

John glances at him, a little startled at the suddenness of his query. "Oh, um, my mum used to love gardening. She taught me some tricks on extracting the properties of some of the magical plants." A corner of his mouth tips up in fond remembrance.

Holmes scrutinises him for a moment then nods imperceptibly. "Muggle-born mother, would have kept a variety of both Muggle and magical plants, used most of them for treatments. She worked as a Muggle Healer – a nurse?"

"She- how did you- yeah, er, yeah, she was a nurse," John manages to get out, frankly amazed that he'd figured that out from one line.

Holmes smirks, but only just, and seems to settle more comfortably in his stance, like he's entered his element. John realises that he really enjoys this, telling people all the details about their lives that he couldn't possibly know. He goes on, "Both your parents were Muggle-born, so you grew up comfortable enough around Muggle objects that you use them casually – you wear Muggle sneakers to Quidditch and you don't overuse magic for everyday actions as most purebloods tend to do because they're accustomed to everything in their lives being performed by magic.

"But your clothes don't show signs of being regularly mended with spells, despite the school robes being unisex and clearly second-hand, formerly an older sibling's, presumably a sister, hence the unisex form. As it is generally a mother's duty to mend her children's clothes, and the few tears in yours have obviously been fixed by your hand or possibly your sister's, then your mother is not present or has passed – likely the latter as you referred to her in past tense. Your father distanced himself from magic after her death and so you are left to independently care for your belongings."

He stops there, or maybe he's just paused to gather the rest of the information before he rattles it off (John wonders vaguely what else he got just from looking), but before he can draw breath John bursts out with a, "That- that's _amazing_, how do you do that?" His eyes are wide and he flushes as he realises that his exclamation betrayed all the awe that had built up while the Slytherin had been talking.

Any mortification he feels, though, is gone when he notices the taken aback expression Holmes dons. It looks foreign on his face, like he's not used to being surprised by anyone (and John's sure that he isn't – if he can guess so much about a person then an unexpected reaction is sure to be a shock). "You think so?"

"_Yeah_, of course," John grins.

Holmes frowns slightly. "You're not upset," he muses, a note of interest colouring his tone.

John tilts his head a little to the side. "No," he agrees. "I mean, we've hardly _talked_ before, how do you notice all that stuff?"

Holmes' mouth quirks up in a smug could-be-smile. "I merely observe."

John stares at him, then when he doesn't elaborate, presses on, "So you really do just look at someone and guess their whole life."

That makes Holmes' satisfaction drop into a scowl (a rather sulky one, too, that looks used enough that John surmises he must have an older brother or sister like him – he recognises the signs). "I never _guess_," he says scathingly, offended. "Everyone _sees_, they just don't observe the details. That's what I do, and from there I gather facts and _deduce_."

John purses his lips in consideration. "So... you look at someone and make an _educated_ guess, then?" he tries. (And why he's baiting the boy, he's not sure, except that he gets a sort of thrill or satisfaction from seeing Holmes' expression twist to as close as _baffled_ as he'll get.)

"If you insist on being stubborn," Holmes says stiffly, slipping his hands into his pockets and peering at John with an unreadable look.

Amused, John shrugs and looks around as Professor Sprout approaches their group. He's stunned to realise that the class is just about over; the back-and-forth with Holmes having wiled away the time, and he turns to see Mike sitting on a nearby stool with a look of mingled amusement and interest as he flicks his gaze between the two boys.

As Professor Sprout praises their (John's) efficient pus-collecting and the class starts to file out, John lingers deliberately behind his friends, taking the time to clean his gloves as his peers pass by him. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Holmes glance in his direction, then look outside and start to walk away, but he catches him before he can (at least try to) talk himself out of it.

"Holmes, wait up."

He pauses by the door and glances back as John hurries after him, going over the questions in his head (_so many_ questions, but he needs to prioritise them and of course he knows what he needs to ask about first).

"You have questions," Holmes states as they start to walk away, heading down the field with John keeping step with the taller boy.

"I- yeah." John shoots him a sideways glance then looks away, his eyes finding the Quidditch pitch in the distance and seeing, in his mind's eye, young Carl _falling_. "At Quidditch practice, the other day," he starts, "you knew what was going to happen. Or, you knew _something_ was going to happen, that's why you were there. And you stopped Carl from falling." It's not a question so much as a statement.

Holmes is silent for a moment, and John turns his head to see that he's being observed. He's struck by how the odd eye colour keeps changing, different every time, but Holmes speaks before he can decide what colour they are at the moment. "I'm not the one responsible for the incident."

John blinks, taken aback. "What? No, I didn't say you were." He frowns at him. "Do people usually accuse you?"

He looks away at that, a corner of his mouth tugging up in a sort of amusement, but he doesn't answer the question. Instead, he says, "I had a clue that someone... that something would go wrong at your practice. I was able to stop it but, unfortunately, I don't... know who was behind it." He seems discomfited by the admission (and why admit it, anyway? John was hardly preparing to press for more details, before).

John's frown deepens at his words, and he goes to ask something that had been a niggling suspicion at the back of his mind the whole week, but Holmes stops walking abruptly.

"I have to go," he says suddenly, his stare piercing John before moving away to scan the mostly empty field. "There's something I need to take care of."

And, before John can comprehend what exactly that's supposed to mean (and why it sounded so sinister, but maybe that's his sometimes overwrought imagination - God knows Harry's called him out on it enough times when they were younger), Holmes saunters away, hands deep in his coat pockets and cutting an impressive mysterious dark figure as he strides confidently down to the school.

John may not have ever been so puzzled in his life, but he has to admit... there's something about the mystery that's like a magnet reeling him in, curiosity-first.

He's not sure what it means. But, once he's back in the Common Room and has to face his friends' concerned queries about where he'd disappeared to, he just shrugs and mutters something inconsequent in response.

It's not quite something he can explain, just yet.

* * *

**A/N:** *wide eyes* Well. There's the awaited deductions and moar John/Sherlock interaction (also more than I'd planned for this chapter, but meh. Sometimes things just happen). Just so you know – no, this does not mean they are automatically BFFs ;) Sherlock's rather occupied with something... well quite sinister down the road, but right now is more of a mystery for him to figure out. Don't worry – John will get roped in soon enough.

Major kudos to **Remy** for urging me to write this because I asked her to persist if it wasn't done by Monday and yesterday she reminded me and I had a mini panic attack because I'd been too busy to finish it, so I've spent all morning today working on it xP (Where would I be without ya, bro? :P)

Also, this chapter _was_ meant to have more after the Herbology class, but it ran away from me. Sherlock decided he was feeling talkative, and John was feeling bold, and they struck up a convo before I could reel them in. Hence, what was _supposed_ to be a small part of the first half of this chapter turned out to be majority of it instead. xP I don't know how these things happen, honestly.

Righty then. I hope you enjoyed that ^.^ Kindly let me know what you thought? :3 Ta, fellas~

-iz. :D


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